“Papa?” Papa prompts. “Say something or go help Mama.”
I sigh. I want to talk about all sorts of things, but I know the privacy we have here is an illusion. Mama can hear every word we’re saying from the dining room.
“Later,” I say. I go over to him and give him a hug from behind. “I’ll tell you that I love you right now, though. And you’re the best Papa anyone could ask for.”
Papa goes still for a few seconds. “I think that’s Damien, actually. But I appreciate the sentiment, Frog.”
“Nah, he’s the best Daddy. You’re the best Papa.” I pull away and reach for the cutlery. “I’ll help Mama. And I’ll tell Samantha that the food’s ready.”
“Tell Ares and Kratos too. They’re in the workshop with Slayer, doing… I don’t know, something that I hope isn’t arson.” Papa grins. “Mostly because it would upset Mama, and I do like the house.”
“Yeah, they should save arson for other people’s houses,” I agree. “What about Mel?”
“She’s out with Damien, doing Christmas shopping.” Papa wraps an arm around my shoulder and pulls me close. He kisses the top of my head. “My favorite destroyer of worlds. I’m glad you’re home.”
Home.
Yeah. I’m glad I’m home too.
Except for the ominous drips on the walls. I could really do with less of those.
Maybe dinner will help settle me, and all these hallucinations will go the fuck away for the rest of the break.
10
ASCH
I don’t know why I expected things to be different.
I know my mom, and I know her habits. I know she gets overwhelmed easily, and that once our house starts to get messy, she shuts down and can’t manage to get it clean again.
But knowing it is different from seeing it, and the second I walk inside, my heart sinks.
It’s not her fault. I know that. I know that she has mental illnesses and hangups and that there are reasons she’s like this.
I know that I’m not much better.
It doesn’t stop my heart from seizing up as I realize what kind of conditions she’s been living in since I left. It wasn’t this bad the last time I was home. At least, I don’t think it was. I’d helped her get it under control, and I’d hoped that she’d be able to keep up with it on her own.
She hasn’t.
Mom greets me at the door, and I can see from the look on her face that her shame is getting the best of her. It’s all in the way her shoulders slump and the way her smile seems frozen on her lips, and my heart aches for her.
She’s doing the best she can, I remind myself, and I really, really have no room to talk.
I come by my own habits honestly, wrought of years of living like this.
Hugging me tight, she whispers, “I missed you, Asch.”
I know her words go beyond missing me at school, and go straight into missing me when I’d shut her out of my life after I’d learned the truth of my supposed scholarships and the link between our family and the Bouchards.
“I missed you too, Mom,” I tell her.
She takes a step back, and I have to step over a pile of grocery bags that have been left right by the front door. They’re full of things that she hasn’t put away, and I hope there’s nothing perishable in them. There isn’t much storage in the house, but there’s enough room in the pantry for these things.
I think.
The living room of our small, cramped house is tightly packed with boxes, and some of them look unopened. The things I’ve bought her and had delivered, full of necessities that she never got around to unpacking. Frustration fills me as I see how much money has probably been wasted by her not even checking them. She’s probably reordering the same things at higher prices.
